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the God awful.

i don’t know at what point this started becoming predictive text, but Here it is for you anyway, the endless flow of internal rhetoric… always arguing a point away as if with authority, but how do we know that our inner voices do not speak with some measure of truth, is there no easy explanation?… somewhere the tension breaks, and down goes the mickey, the catalyst in a type of germ warfare of the mind… the hope of bringing the hope-full down, with hypocritical flare and valor, and the crusades go on it seems… with nuclear sword drawn to raise hell and high water, in one swift altruistic goal, and you might realize at the least valuable moment that the goals are really shams and games alike… meant for no absolute winner, just to bide the time that isn’t exactly borrowed, as we pass the energy back and forth maybe… while more valid of us choose to experiment with nature, but certainly not to blow irregularities out of proportion, only to advance the cultural mindset a little further… though the question remains, asking for definition of what we are diving into, in suspicious wonder paranoid of the next bad thing… we move sluggishly on the grand scale, but are tricked into throttling the good times out of our amoeba-brained organizational skills, lacking the right emotional content to bring all people together… however, the commercial mind fuck will allow us to do only the most menial of repetitions instead of having the confidence to test ourselves on the plane of exception, there is more to gain if atrophied to the brink… at the very least, we should free the information, and trust the other’s personal interpretation to make a difference in upholding this continuity… the ghosts in the back of my head talk about insight, and sometimes they task themselves with rearranging my life in odd contortions that at first appear in the negative, then are later prime components in understanding the actual reality where the lines blur… though even sight of this grey area becomes biased from the lone mind’s eye recording away, and stories projecting this particular interpretation indirectly, i merely speculate and hum and haw and stretch the issues across a thin skin of imagination… everyone wants to be the artist, but more for the preposed accolades one would receive for the better works, the legendary status can most certainly come later… we choose the bitter pill to swallow first, whether we know it or not, and the grief and the guilt come from this influence deep inside the conscious mind… a supine gesture for an antiquated laze, twelve gauges to free the head, and sometimes making the grey matter splatter more brilliant… the brain-dead anomaly given credit in a contest of betters, nothing but the fanciful dissenter outrageous in the focus on leisure, and there is all so much more than merely pleasure… the discomfort welds us into place with the heat of the moment, or perhaps it is the heat of passion, either way we glue ourselves into place out of a lingering wont for something quite splendid and new… where can we go when nothing is new?…

Thanks, khet.